


S O R C E R Y

by therentyoupay



Category: Frozen (2013), Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Colonial!Jack, Colonial/Fairy Tale, Crossover, F/M, Human!Jack, Jack-Centric, Mild Language, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-27 23:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2710088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therentyoupay/pseuds/therentyoupay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“I ain't goin' nowhere.”</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	S O R C E R Y

**Author's Note:**

> _12/3/14_. OH LOOK A NEW FIC yeah, it's not like I already have 10+ works in progress, two of which are 200,000+ words. No big deal. ~~/sobbing.~~
> 
> Unlike my first Jelsa Week 2014 contribution, this is actually something that I've been writing for a while. (I was actually in the middle of writing my other human!Jack story, _apples_ , when I started thinking about what it would have been like for Elsa to join Jack's world instead. I started writing this one even before I'd finished that one-shot, because I am weak.) 
> 
> FYI, taking a lot of creative liberties here. I did some research, but most of this is based off of ROTG "canon" and how much ~~little~~ I know of North American colonial times (I am a proud Northeasterner!), and honestly, the rest is just everything I’m making up in between. Also, I remember reading that Burgess was somewhere in Pennsylvania? I don’t know. I’ve always just imagined that Jack grew up somewhere in New England and, since that’s where I live, it worked for me to write it that way. :P
> 
> I repeat: this is not a “serious” historical fiction fic. This is a combination of taking elements from Frozen’s pseudo-fairy tale land and shoving them into my personal interpretation of this particular colonial village, which is based on my own personal knowledge of New England-y history.
> 
> ( **Edit** : I lied. I did read one article on this subject: “Courtship, Sex, and the Single Colonist.” Anyone ever hear of bundling? Fascinating.)
> 
> So, if anybody wants to share any really helpful points, insights, or corrections, I WOULD LOVE YOU FOREVER.

 

 

. * * * .

 

. * * * .

 

It started on the coldest day of autumn.

Harsh winds were blowing in from the east, and the last of the supplies from the mainland would arrive in only a matter of days. Once the ship made its return to the Crown, there wouldn't be another journey overseas until the early spring.  
  
Not that Jack much cared.  
  
He and his family could get by fine on their own without any Redcoats turning up.  
  
Some of the other villagers wanted to head closer to port, or move all the way up to Salem or Boston, but Jack knew that there was plenty of good land, right here. Harvest would be a hard one this year, he'd give them that, but he didn't let himself dwell on shit about which there couldn't be nothin' done. ( _Besides. Ain’t like it was gonna be any less colder up in Boston_.) Jack didn't have much to do for his share of the crops, anyway. Just his sheep, and so long as the wolves didn't get starved and come crossing in, they'd do fine.  
  
 _However_. _.._  
  
Jack eyed the empty forest floor, his gaze keen and sharp, and his grin just as wry.  
  
Couldn't hurt if he skinned a few extra rabbits along the way.

. * * * .

  
The traps were set; he was no expert, but he'd learned a thing or two from bothering Old Man Williams day in and day out, and one furry little fellow was already sniffing at the bait.

Bingo.

Then he heard familiar, unmistakable footsteps crashing through the brush, stomping over dry twigs and leaves with expert carelessness. He'd always told her that for such a tiny pipsqueak, she sure had some heavy feet.

“Jack! Come quick!”

With a sigh, he watched the skittish rabbit hop away.

“ _Jack!”_

Well _._ Looked like he was gonna have to sell that extra wool he'd been savin' up, after all.

“Jack! Jack, where _are_ you?”

“Hasn't anyone ever—”

Jack jumped back as she cried out, clutching the front of her dress with wide eyes, and Jack spun on his heel immediately, expecting a wolf--or worse, a bear. His eyes were fearful, and a little expectant, as he turned back to her, watching her grip the fabric of her dress in her tiny hands.

“Don't _do_ that!” she exclaimed, staring up at him reproachfully. Jack's tongue was tied, just for a moment, but as soon as his quip curled itself onto his tongue, she launched herself into his legs, fierce and dismayed. His hands found her back immediately, and she buried her face into his shirt, through which he heard a disgruntled, “Mama _told_ you not to sneak up on me.”

Astounded, though he really shouldn't have been, Jack let out a laugh, his escaped rabbit mostly forgotten. His hand settled over the crown of her head, and at his gentle pull, her face peered up at him, accusing and adoring all at once.

“It's not sneaking if you don't try.”

“You _always_ sneak."

“Never.”

She stared up at him, suspiciously, then glanced about, suddenly curious. “What are you doing out here, anyway?” she asked him, clutching onto his vest. He wondered if she realized that she hadn't yet let go. “Mama told us to be in the village before noon to help the others, but nobody could find you.”

Jack pointedly ignored the traps off to the side, hidden in the brush. “So _nosy_ ,” he muttered, tousling her hair as she swat him off, “I was planting some magic beans for our special palace, obviously.”

A tiny punch to his gut had him doubling over with breathless laughter, but the sheer delight in his little sister's eyes faded to weary concern. “Mama doesn't like it when you play like that,” she reminded him quietly, so serious for so small a thing. “It's not good to talk 'bout those things where other people can hear you.”

For her sake, Jack resisted rolling his eyes. Mostly.

As thick as some of the villagers were, they weren't the cruel barbarians they had in other parts; this wasn't _Salem_. “You worry too much,” he grinned at her, ruffling her hair.

“Yeah, well, _you_ shouldn't be skipping off from Mama's orders,” she argued back, crossing her tiny arms. “She's already cross that you weren't around to— _oh!_ ”

“ _Ow—_ what the— _?_ ”

“You distracted me!” she accused, grabbing tight to his hand and yanking him along the path. “I came here to _find_ you, and tell you the news!” Jack threw one last glance at where he'd left the remaining traps as she dragged him along, and that should have been his moment to prepare, to savor just how very simple his life had been, but he was too busy thinking about a rabbit, and just how strong his little sister had grown. He briefly considered digging his heels into the ground, just to see what she'd do, but her grip was tight, and her words were never-ending.

“Whoah, whoah, whoah,” Jack let himself be dragged, marveling at the pure stretch of _breath_ that she seemed capable of. “Slow down. What's got you all riled up?”

“Jack, you never listen! There are _travelers!_ They are entering the village now, a whole herd of them!”

“Oh, great _._ Should I grab the torches while you grab the pitchforks?”

“Jack, that isn't _funny_. And most of them are only staying for a matter of weeks, anyways, and I thought you _liked_ having visitors and _really_ , Jack, would it hurt ya to be a little kinder?”

“What's this? Bein' scolded by my own kid sister?”

“Stop distractin' me. Mama needs help making room for some of the ones who're stayin' and _you've_ been out here all morning in the woods, so we'll be lucky if she doesn't decide to trade one of the new folks for _you_ instead.”

Jack bit back a smile. Her mouth was gettin' just as crooked as his was.

“Stop worryin' so much,” he laughed, and let himself be dragged all the way back to the village. “I ain't goin' nowhere.”

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 **Ｓ Ｏ Ｒ Ｃ Ｅ Ｒ Ｙ**

 

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. * * * .

{ _part one_ }  
  
. * * * .  
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“You're late, boy,” said Old Man Miller, as he thrust a heap of firewood into Jack's chest. “Get this to the Cooks' fire pit.”

It took a moment for his breath to find its way back into his lungs, and by that time, Old Man Miller was already pointedly staring him down. “Yes, sir,” Jack grunted out, still winded, and turned away as the old man shook his head.

The whole village was bustling, and a caravan of wagons lined the dirt paths leading from the forest. People were talking all around, but Jack mostly ignored the babble; he was not in the mood for idle chatter today.

“What's wrong?” hissed his little sister, as soon as he returned to their hearth. Pipsqueakwas hovering over the pot hanging over the fire, stirring up the makings of the stew their mother must have prepared. He could only assume—Jack had been avoiding his mother all afternoon.

“What?” Jack snapped, but his terseness went ignored. _Dammit_ , he thought, as she glared at him, deadpan; his tricks weren't going to work on her for much longer. Still, he held true to his bite. “Nothin',” he muttered.

She was staring at him down the length of her nose, which was all the more amusing by how far she had to tilt her head _up_. “You lovemeeting new travelers,” she reminded him, but it sounded more like an accusation, or a question. “Why aren't you outside?”

He dropped the few remaining pieces of wood into their stacks against the wall, ignoring her question for as long as he could.

“I ain’t outside because I'm in here, helping you,” he pointed out, aiming for easygoing and annoyed. “Unless you'd rather stir that pot all by yourself?”

She eyed him shiftily. “You hate cookin'.”

Jack frowned. “So?”

“So what have you got against travelers all of a sudden? You love their stories.”

Jack bit the inside of his cheek.

She was gettin’ awfully observant.

His feet carried him to where she stood, and then he was taking her small shoulders in his hands. When he did answer her, he dropped down to her eye level, which he knew she both appreciated, and hated.  
  
“Don’t mind me,” he whispered, letting his laughter fill the holes in his gaze. “You know better, right?”

She held the spoon in her hands, gently, to keep them from wringing. Still, a speck of a smile floated its way onto her face, and Jack nearly sighed in relief, when she looked him in the eye and begrudgingly played along. “Right.”

“Good,” he said softly, at length, and placed a warm hand on her shoulder as he lifted himself to rise. “Well. Guess I should go greet the day, shouldn't I?”

She was already back to tending to the stew, as obedient and responsible as he'd never be, and she merely gave him a _look_ as she turned back to him over her shoulder. Right. That settled that, then.

“Time to put on the charm,” he muttered, and reluctantly stepped into the sunlight.

. * * * .

Most of the newest batch of travelers were young men, a little older than him, straight off the boat from the motherland. All of them were hoping to get some land for themselves farther south, make a name for themselves, find a family. All they could talk about was how much warmer it was down in Virginia, and they reckoned that they could find some territory somewhere in between, and Jack tried very hard to pretend not to grow impatient with their cocky optimism. It would have been a lot easier without their condescension too, but that was easy enough to drown out once Old Man Miller brought out the ale. (Mrs. Miller sent disapproving looks between the men and the setting sun, but it wasn't Sunday and the preacher was drinking too, so she really couldn't mind.)

There were a few families too, all of relatively similar age and size—not too young, not too old—those who could survive the harrowing journey overseas. (Jack had heard stories, of course, of rats and illness and weeks without land; he'd prefer to take his chances with the wolves in the forest, any day.) No one remarkable, and nothing extraordinary, though honestly, Jack didn't know what he'd expected. After so many years, you’d think he’d have learned. Most travelers were all the same.

Coming and going, whatever and whenever they pleased, and they drank merrily or rested quietly, and as long as they kept mostly to themselves and left his village alone in the end, that was fine.

His mother got hold of him eventually, but Jack knew he'd escaped the brunt of her scolding—for now _._ Just a few days, and then he'd be hearing all about his trouble, once the white-wagon herds moved out. ( _Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing, then, if they'd stay_.) Pip, for all her once-upon-a-time shyness, had been released from her supper duties to go out and play with the other children. He could hear her rowdy laughter even from the other side of the village, and most days, Jack was happy that she was happy.  
  
Some days, he couldn't decide whether her taking after him was really a good thing, or not.

. * * * .

“ _Jack._ ”

There was something poking his shoulder.

He ignored it.

“Jack, wake _up_.”

“What in the _hell_ —?” Jack's froze, eyes widening. “Uh... You didn't hear that.”

“It's not the first time I've heard a curse from your sorry mouth,” she retorted quietly, and Jack shifted suddenly as alertness shocked through. Why was she awake? Had she heard a noise? Had she had a nightmare?

“What's wrong?” he demanded.

“I wanna talk to you.”

Jack lifted his gaze in the dark of the cabin to the soft cot of hay where his mother slept, and where his sister _should_ have been sleeping. Their mother was out cold, sleeping peacefully.

He slanted a gaze back toward hers, recognizing that the urgency had passed. With a tone as slanted as his brows, “It can't wait 'til morning?”

She considered this. Then, quietly, an apologetic, “No.”

Jack looked her over carefully, searching for any signs of tears or scrapes or bruises. When he found nothing, he released a heavy sigh, and lifted up his blanket, trying not to hiss at the fresh spike of cold air over his skin. “Get in here, before you catch cold.”

She did as he said, and crawled between the blankets, tucking herself close to his side. He didn't like it when she slept on the ground this late into the year, because it was never as warm, not even near the fire, but he guessed he couldn't mind all that much. If the elders had their way, he'd be married off by next spring, and sleeping in a house made by his own bare hands for the following snowfall of winter.

His mom would be remarried too, in this ideal world of theirs, and Pipsqueak would be gone not long after.

Jack didn't think about it.

“All right,” he said at last, when it became clear that she wouldn't fess up on her own. “What is it?”

For a while, he feared that she'd fallen asleep, but when he looked down to check, he saw her eyes open and thoughtful, glowing in the light from the dying embers of the fire. Careful not to jostle her, Jack lifted himself, and reached over to grab another log to throw into the hearth. A wave of comfortable heat flooded the room as he poked it with a long stick, before he threw that on top of the fire, too.

“How do you know if you've met an angel?”

Jack's elbow slipped as he lowered himself back down, skidding uncomfortably against the flimsy blanket that separated him from the ground, and accidentally knocked into her as well. It was when he received no retaliation, that he knew.

“You're serious,” he whispered.

Her cheeks pinked, offended and embarrassed, but Jack couldn't bring himself to apologize. “Maybe,” she murmured.

“What in the world makes you think you've seen an angel?”

“I—I don't know!” she hissed, glaring, but they both quieted as their mother turned over in her sleep. After a long moment, she looked Jack's incredulousness straight in the eye and said, “There's a girl who's traveling with the others, and she's the most beautiful creature I've ever _seen_.”

Jack highly doubted that, but whatever. He loved a good story just as much as the next guy. “Oh, yeah? And _that_ makes her an angel? Ma would force you to help the Millers with their sewing for a _week_ if she heard you talkin' so shallow.”

“It's not about that!” she hissed back, already fearful of all the potential sewing and mending. “She _is_ beautiful, but that's not it—Jack, she's _lovely_.”

“Lovely? What the hell kind of word is that?”

“She taught it to me!”

“Yeah? And did she teach you that people’re supposed to stay up all night, too? Because I know _two_ people in this room who’re awake when they shouldn't be, and who have chores first thing in the morning.” Not that he was planning to _do_ them first thing, but still.  
  
That wasn’t the point.

“Jack, she knows all _kinds_ of words. She _reads_ —and not just the basic books, either. For _fun_.”

This gave Jack pause, and she noticed.

“She says it's not uncommon in other parts of the world! Even in other villages—small ones, like ours—there are lots of people who read and write everyday.”

Jack didn't want to think about the image of his mother trying to teach him letters by candlelight, of him drifting too fast off to sleep, exhausted. So he didn't.

“All right,” he conceded. “So maybe she had a fancy teacher in a fancy schoolhouse to teach her, or parents that weren't too busy with the harvest, or she knows about other places that do. Still doesn't make her an angel.”

“She's very quiet, but has the prettiest voice, and when she speaks you can tell that she thinks through her words _real_ careful, and she's polite _all_ the time, even when she's playing around, and her laughter is like _bells_ and all the other kids love her, Jack, so don't you dare think for a second that I'm the only one who's probably still thinking about her tonight, you hear?”  
  
Jack scowled.  
  
All of the other kids loved _him_.  
  
“Yeah?” he bit back, swallowing down the challenge rising up in his throat. He reeled it back in, quickly, stamping down the uncomfortable rush of defensiveness, except: “What’s so special about her?”  
  
“Aren’t you _listening_? She has the sweetest temper out of anyone I've ever known.”

“Pip. How many people have you actually known?” She paused, and Jack mistakenly thought he'd won.

“And Jack?” she whispered.

He sighed. “Yes?”

“She's _beautiful_.”

Jack shifted beneath the blankets, trying not to squirm. This topic had been surprising, at first, and then it was sorta amusing, but Jack was tired, and all this talk of some strange new angel-girl was starting to get uncomfortable. “All right, Pip. Sleep.”

“You don't believe me.”

Actually, he was starting to, and that was the problem.

“Pip,” he grumbled, though it sounded like a plea. “Talk about this in the morning.”

“Wait—I'm not tired anymore!”

“Well, _I_ am and _you_ should be.”

“But what happens when she leaves? Where she will go?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know? Ask _her_ that.”

“You don't even know her name.”

“Well, I would if you told me.”

“You probably won't even appreciate it.”

“Probably not as much as you.”

“Jack, she's _wonderful_. She's kind and she's sweet and gentle, and you can tell her mind is sharp, like all her thoughts are clear, just like her eyes, cause they're so bright, and her skin is so pale like moonlight.”

“ _What_ on—who've you been listenin' to?”

“And her hair is the most beautiful golden color I've ever _seen_.”

“Lots of people have golden hair,” Jack mumbled.

“Not like _hers_.”

“You like her because of her hair?”

“I _like_ her, because she reminds me of an angel.”

“Whatever,” Jack muttered, finally exhausted of this pointless conversation. “It's time to sleep.”

“You don't believe me!”

“And you don't really think she's an angel,” Jack pointed out. “She's just new, and interesting, and nice to look at. It's fine, but I'm not gonna waste my night over it.”

She mumbled something under her breath, but he didn't catch it. He pretended that he did, anyway, but was just mature enough not to reply.

“Besides,” he added haughtily, with that delicious sort of tone that hinted at having the final word in an argument. (Jack _lived_ for that feeling—having the final word.) “You're forgetting the most important part.”

“Oh, yeah?” she muttered grouchily, though she was already drifting off to sleep. Jack could tell. “What's... that?”

Jack pulled his little sister closer, shielding her from the autumn's cold, and pretended that their family could stay together forever.

“Angels are supposed to sing,” he whispered, but he wasn’t sure she heard him.

. * * * .

“My, we're awfully cynical these days,” he mother murmured, and if anyone could be blamed for his notorious sense of humor, it was her; that was _amusement_ in her voice.

“ _Mother_ ,” he grumbled.

“Come,” she beckoned him to the hearth, holding out a spoon. “Help your old mother with some stew for the Williams.”

Jack did as she asked, frowning. “Who're the Williams?”

“A young couple on their way to Maine,” his mother answered, passing him the spoon to stir. “They're in a far bit over their heads, I'm afraid, and could use something to warm their bones.”

Jack wanted to know how they were supposed to warm _their_ bones if they kept passing out the extra meat to anybody with a wagon, but he kept his mouth shut. _This village had been founded on the kindness of others_ , they always told him, _and that was how it would remain._

Sure.

“Bring this to them—they're staying with the Smith family—then go and fetch your sister for the washing to be done. She's out with the other children by the square, I'm sure.”

Except she wasn't.

“Oh, for the _love_ of—”

Even with his mediocre tracking skills, a thorough knowledge of all of her favorite hiding places, and the fact that she left frenzied tracks wherever she ran, the little creature was nowhere to be found.  
  
He went looking throughout the village, askin’ around, gettin’ more cross all the while; since when was _he_ the responsible one? Most days, Jack would have hunted her down himself--played a little, took a break--but he still had traps to lay before dark, and the sheep weren’t gonna herd themselves.

Where the hell was she?  
  
The Baker’s wife overheard him grumbling to himself once he got too close to the line of wagons, and she broke apart from a traveler mid-conversation to kindly inform him that his sister and her own son were off with the other children, showing Miss Arendell the river. They were due back shortly and Emily was welcome to stay for supper and _would you like some thyme, Jackson, to take back to your mother?  
  
_ Annoyed, and _too_ annoyed to really think all that clearly about it, Jack trudged back to the cabin with a bundle of dried herbs tied up with some twine, knowing that Pip was gonna be sore with him ( _“Thank you, Mrs. Baker, but I’m ‘fraid Pip still has some chores to be done.”_ ) and feeling strangely like he wasn’t actually feelin’ all that guilty about it.

His mother watched him carefully as he left again, this time with his staff, but Jack pretended not to notice her frown.

. * * * .  
  
“ _Be careful,_ ” she reminded him.

.* * * .

He was exhausted, but at least he finally had a rabbit to show for it.  
  
Not to say that it hadn’t taken half the afternoon, and that the sheep hadn’t been all sorts of confused by his restlessness before he could head back into the woods to check—because they _had—_ but it was worth it. So Jack was feeling pretty good about himself, indeed, as he trekked back through the village with a prize in his bag, fighting the urge to brag every step of the way.  
  
Until.  
  
“It’s a mighty shame that they won’t stay,” Jack heard someone saying, heaping another log of wood onto the fire in the square. “Don’t know what they’re thinkin’, headin’ off to Canada in the thick of autumn.”  
  
“The lass is just a child,” said the Cutler’s wife in response, low with concern. “She looks more fit to be a Princess than a farmer’s daughter.”  
  
Jack slowed his pace, pretending to watch a card game of travelers off to the side. Gambling wasn’t something the preacher condoned in the village, but the travelers always got a bit bolder with rule-breaking after a day or two. The Tanner’s wife, the first voice, was speaking again.  
  
“Doesn’t make sense, is what I’m saying. She should stay _here_ , find herself a good husband.”  
  
“She should go to _Boston_ , if that’s what she needs,” pressed Mrs. Cutler, and Jack dawdled on the other side of the fire, pretending to adjust the straps of his bounty. “A beautiful girl like that could do more for her station at port than in the fields.”  
  
He would have found another excuse to stay and eavesdrop if Old Man Tanner hadn’t come out and laughed about the gossiping nature of his wife. He earned himself a good sharp-tongued quip or two as they retired to their home for supper, and then Jack was left standing awkwardly in the square.  
  
All the way home, Jack caught snippets of similar conversation; he’d been ignoring it all for the last few days, so he was surprised to find just how _many_ of his fellow villagers were very taken with some of the visitors. Talk of newcomers was always a village favorite, and some stood out more than others.  
  
Some, a lot more. Actually, if Jack was being honest with himself—

Just one.

. * * * .

Pip was indeed cross with him when he returned, and refused to look at him throughout the whole of their supper. Jack hardly said a word. Their mother might have bashed their heads together, if she’d thought it’d do the trick, but as it was, the three of them went to sleep that night with an unfamiliar quiet, and Jack didn’t actually sleep very much at all.

. * * * .

It was thus on the third day, that he met her.  
  
Pip was in a strangely good mood, especially considering her tiff from the night before. She wasn’t the type to hold a grudge—memory too short—but she wasn’t always the kind to forgive so easily either, especially when it came to playtime.  
  
Jack could sort of relate.  
  
Morning responsibilities generously completed, Jack ventured out into the square to find the village children. It’d been a few days since he’d started up any games, and he was sure that they missed him.  
  
After searching for half an hour with not a sign of them, it came to light that Pip and some of the other kids had gone to fetch water from the stream with Miss Arendell, and that the Miller’s wife had seen them passing back toward their respective homes not long before. _Great_. He’d gone on a wild goose chase for nothing. Jack thanked the Miller’s wife, then walked aimlessly off, wondering what to do next; it was hard to go anywhere with a pit of bitterness laying heavy in his stomach.  
  
He wasn’t consciously aware of his feet taking him to the pond until he was almost at the end of the trail. _Pip and her big ideas_ , Jack grumbled to himself. _He_ was usually the one who was too often caught around the wagon herds, angling for stories and skipping off chores to visit that season’s newest batch of travelers. And where was he now? Crunching around in the woods without anybody to follow him, or to laugh at his jokes, or to impress, and no traps to lay or sheep to herd or little sister to mess with, and for what? ( _For how long?_ ) This nonsense would pass soon enough, Jack convinced himself, yanking overlong tree branches out of his way. The pond was just up ahead. Pip and the other kids would remember Jack soon enough—as soon as the herds moved out; maybe even sooner—and he’d welcome them back with open arms—and a few tricks, of course, because turnabout was fair play—and soon the village would forget all about the fact that there was ever a—  
  
One ridiculously large tree root that Jack didn’t remember being there before was suddenly caught beneath the toe of his boot, and in a flurry of limbs, Jack tumbled to the ground. His knee hit hard soil with a sharp, shooting pain, but the ground was warm? Or part of it? One hand was scraping against small, cold gravel and his other—? Was that—  
  
A shoe?

“The _hell—_?”  
  
Jack froze.  
  
Suddenly, the small yelp of noise that Jack had vaguely remembered hearing—mistakenly thinking it was a nearby animal, or a regrettable noise from his own unwilling throat—was most definitely attached to a person.  
  
A girl.

. * * * .

 


End file.
